by Tanvir Bush
‘Ah, don’t worry,’ says The Mouth to the clown. ‘The fearsome nurse is in a Chiller Bed specially designed for people thrashing and twisting and desperate. Look, everyone. Bring the camera closer, please.’
Terry stumbles forward, pulling Alex with him. ‘Not going in alone,’ he apologises in a whisper.
Through the camera close-ups it is apparent that Nurse Dyer is restrained by straps around her ankles, wrists and waist. She has a white plastic gag in her mouth that drips with foam. Her furious eyes and foaming mouth make her look rabid.
Now the clowns line up in formation and point to each feature as The Mouth reads them out.
‘Maximum adjustable working height – mattress support – ninety-seven centimetres. Minimum adjustable working height – mattress support – fifty-seven centimetres. Lateral tilt adjustable – two directions and angle gauges and emergency levelling – thirty degrees. Side-flap elevation adjustable – ninety degrees. Pressure- relief side-flaps lower – fifteen degrees. Back-lift profile adjustable – sixty degrees. Leg-lift profile adjustable and knee-brake – fifty degrees …’
The list goes on and on. The clowns feign yawns.
‘Carrier rails for catheter bag and accessories at each side. Directional mains-power lead allows exit at either end of bed. IV drip stand – two sockets – at head end.
‘But … !’ the voice from The Mouth booms louder. ‘In addition – and here is where it is totally unique and never before seen in any other residential home – the Chiller Bed does exactly that – it chills. At night the temperature of the bed can be reduced quickly and efficiently. It takes merely minutes and already, as you can see, Nurse Dyer is beginning to find things are getting a little cooler.’
On the bed Nurse Dyer is snuffling through her nostrils, and now a wisp of mist can be seen as her breath condenses. She is shivering. Even from a couple of feet away Alex and Terry can feel the deep chill coming from the bed. It is as if someone has opened a freezer door.
‘The Chiller Beds,’ says The Mouth, as if in a sales room, ‘are perfect for reducing body temperature. Why, you might ask? Well, for the same reason that these beds are also fitted with sponge-like filler in the mattresses, so that in addition to chilling, the beds can be lightly sprayed with water. The combination of wet and cold is perfect for the Chiller Bed.’
One of the clowns has a little red watering can and is now watering Nurse Dyer. Her shivering becomes more pronounced, and she begins to gasp around her gag. It is horrible to watch.
‘Please stop this!’ Alex can’t take this any more. She steps forward.
The Mouth tuts. ‘But my dear, Nurse Dyer is fit and relatively healthy. If we stop this now, she will survive. Is that what you want?’
‘Of course!’ Alex is horrified by the implication, the realisation.
‘It isn’t what she would want for you, my dear, not if you were one of the elderly or disabled people who had come under her “care”. Nurse Dyer has overseen several hundred people in these beds. She has not listened to their pleas for mercy, to their icy tears, to their confusion. Of course, Nurse Dyer keeps all her clients sedated in order to maintain the peace. She just lets the Chiller Beds do their job, as she has been instructed.’
Now Alex can hear several people shouting and banging on the glass of the family room. She turns, looking over her shoulder. Behind the windows the people are a blur to her. ‘They look really shocked back there,’ Terry whispers to her.
‘Yes, you can ask them what they think,’ The Mouth says calmly to Alex, as if reading her mind. ‘They can hear us. Ask the mayor if he understands what has been going on in Grassy- banks. Ask him if he understands the true nature of the Chiller Beds. Ask them all in the family room if they understand why Grassybanks always has room for more—’ and here the voice on screen becomes a jangled electronic scream ‘—MORE FUCKING PATIENTS!’
The banging on the windows stops. Everyone, even the clowns, become quiet as the terrible roar echoes off the walls. The mayor and his entourage step back from the glass. There is a faint sound of sobbing.
‘Take the bitch to Ward C,’ says The Mouth. ‘I think we have made our point.’
The nurse-clowns who brought Nurse Dyer in now wheel the bed out, heads down and sombre as a funeral procession.
‘Where the hell is security?’ Terry scans around. ‘This is getting really serious.’
Robin Less Cock
Inside the family room Robin has his work cut out for him.
As soon as it became apparent that they had been locked into the room, a couple of the PR people had mild hysterics. He had sat them down on cushions and forced them to breathe into paper bags he had found in a drawer. Later, when the Chiller Bed with Nurse Dyer was wheeled in, he had become frightened himself. He knew about the Chiller Beds. Almost all the key nursing staff did. In fact, one of the tasks set for the night shift was ‘watering the clients’. But because the wards were constantly monitored by CCTV, the watering cans came in the shape of hot-water bottles. It just looked as if the night staff were rooting around the clients to find the best place to put them. Instead, they were squeezing out ribbons of water to soak into the mattresses below the already icy, sedated bodies.
He wonders, staring out at the capering nurse-clowns, the stranger still rubber-masked army and the horrible huge mouth on the screen, if they are going to pull him out from the crowd in the family room and put him into one of the beds too. It isn’t fair. They had been doing it all for the good of the clients. It was for the good of the environment. It was recycling, plain and simple. These people were used up, useless, a drain on society. It was the best thing for everyone, especially them, that they gave their lives to science. And … and … the deaths weren’t so bad. They were allowed to use sedation … Dr Binding would explain. He would sort all this out.
All around Robin people are asking, ‘Where are the police? Where are the police? What happened to the security?’
Oh hurry up, Dr Binding, thinks Robin. We need you.
The Storm
The storm is approaching the city exactly as predicted by the crows, although humans, with their limited senses, have yet to notice. The wind has dropped, and a headache of heat and stillness has descended like a sticky spider’s web over Cambright. The immense thundercloud approaching is still out of sight, just over the horizon, but it’s coming closer every second. It is breathing in, sucking up moisture and light and energy. In the hot, numbing pre-storm hush, many people become woozy, have to pause breathless and put a hand against a wall for balance. Like a mountain unchained from the earth, the cloud closes in. In air-conditioned shops and cafés they only notice the atmospheric change when the lights flicker and the cloud above blots out the sun. Across the city, people come to their windows, pointing at the darkness on one side of the sky. Anxious parents begin to move towards the doors to call their miserable, hot children inside.
And then the storm breathes out WHHHHHHAAAAAAA and the dry, warm wind tsunami hits. Trees shake like dogs. All things not weighted down shift, skitter, flap and tumble ahead of the thunderhead. And then it brings the rain.
It is a monstrous thing, this storm, crackling with electricity, ravenous and with such ill humour. It seems to open great chunks of sky and pour the rain through without bothering to let it coalesce into droplets. Rivers of water sluice down from above, soaking the hot tarmac, the dry dusty ground, the sun-blasted tiles, and everything steams and splutters. In the streets, people are running for cover, newspapers and briefcases held hopelessly over their heads. Clothes turn transparent, water shines in the eyes of the young. Not even the bravest stands still beneath the oncoming weight of the weather. The smell is sensational, earthy, exotic, exciting, but no one pauses to breathe it in. The storm stomps on the city, and everyone must find shelter.
‘My God! That’s some downpour,’ says Mosh as the rainwater hits their windows, rendering them momentarily opaque, as if someone has just dashed a huge bucket of water aga
inst the side of the house. Thunder growls, and Chris growls back, upset by the noise drowning out Alex’s voice in the picture box. Serena is wide-eyed and her skin is goosebumped, but Jenny’s eyes are narrowed, still completely focused on the television.
‘This looks really serious, Mosh,’ she says over her shoulder. ‘Do you think we should call someone?’
At that moment Mosh’s bleeper goes off.
‘No point,’ he says as he reads the text message and reaches for his car keys. ‘The river’s in potential flood. Police, fire, ambulance; everyone’s been called out on general alert.’
The bow wave of wind hits the front entrance of Grassybanks hard, triggering the electric doors to slide open, and whooshes into the reception area where the clowns and rubber-faced army stand around the wheelchairs. Paper and pens, leaflets and wall-notices fly into the air, and the wind is strong enough to shove the clowns holding the wheelchairs, and knock Terry and the camera off balance.
‘Get the door!’ yells one of the clowns, its voice odd and discordant from under its silly wig, as the screen with The Mouth on it rocks precariously on its stand. Clowns dash around, but for the moment the wind is only messing with them. It has already withdrawn, sucking itself backwards through the doors, leaving those in reception staggering in the aftermath. The door slides shut with an apologetic ding, and to prevent it opening again, a clown turns its automated opening system off. As rain splatters with the noise of popping corn against the glass, the clowns near the door pause briefly, staring out, watching as men and women run hither and thither around the Grassybanks car park.
‘There is something happening outside,’ says Terry to Alex, ‘but I can’t see through the rain.’
‘The police?’
‘Not sure. Maybe. Flashing lights, far off … by the river. The clowns don’t seem bothered. Looks like one has locked the door.’
‘Focus, focus!’ The Mouth is back on screen. ‘Hellooo again!’ It smiles. It looks different. The voice, however, is still Helen’s.
Back at the Movies
And now there is another film screening at the Grassybanks cinema.
Two young men, maybe seventeen years old, are sitting in front of a camera in their pants and vests. They are twins, almost identical apart from the fact one is taller and looks chipper and alert, and the other seems half asleep. The chipper one seems to be enjoying all the attention. He has a charming, lopsided grin and a deep dimple that makes the angry-looking acne outbreak on his forehead seem inconsequential.
‘Handsome kid,’ Terry whispers to Alex as he films the film.
‘My name’s Dan and I’m your man!’ says Dan, and off camera a couple of people join in his laughter. His crooked sweet grin is very endearing.
‘Now Dan, what did we say?’ A man in a white doctor’s jacket moves into shot.
Alex blinks hard and gets confirmation from Terry. Yes, it’s Dr Binding.
‘Aww come on, Doc. I am just warming up the audience for you.’
‘Quite so. Now, I need you just to say your name and your age. OK, Daniel?’
‘Gonna be famous, me.’ The lad makes a face and winks at someone, possibly a nurse. A clipped voice off-camera states: ‘Day One of the Pansy–Binding trial. June twenty-first. Ten a.m. Daniel Warbray, now known as Twin One, and Wayne Warbray, now known as Twin Two. Both seventeen years, three months and two days old, one hundred and seventy and one hundred and seventy-two pounds. One is five feet, eight point five inches, the other five feet, nine point five inches.’
As Dr Binding continues to examine the twins, another man in a white coat moves forward, away from the lads, and quietly holds up two syringes to the camera. The clipped voice continues, ‘The Pansy solution will be administered to Twin One for six days, and the control administered to Twin Two under similar conditions.’
The man holding up the syringes winks into the camera and whispers, ‘I am telling you, Binding, only six days for a real result.’
The twins are moved into a twin-bedded ward and made comfortable. Dan is still chirruping to the nurses and pretending brazen confidence. His brother remains taciturn and unsmiling but gives no trouble. He watches Dan clamber into his bed and quietly gets into his own. There is a little hassle over the inserting of the cannula. The quiet twin, Wayne, refuses to let the nurse take his arm. Dan gets out of his bed and comes over to his brother’s side of the room.
‘He’s frightened of needles,’ he says solemnly to the nurse. ‘I just need to hold his other hand.’
Dan punches his brother in the chest, gently, and uses the casual gesture to take his right hand. His brother almost smiles.
‘When’s supper, gorgeous?’ asks Dan of the nurse as she bustles over Wayne’s arm. He is trying to get his brother to think of something other than the hypodermic needle. ‘I’m bloody starving.’
‘Sorry, love. It’s nil-by-mouth.’ The nurse’s response is a little cautious.
‘Eh?’
‘No food this evening.’ She looks at his expression and wilts. ‘Don’t worry. You can have something tomorrow.’
‘Promise?’
The nurse tuts, dropping her eyes to the bed sheets. She promises nothing.
The next eight minutes of footage covers the next five days. In the family room several people have to turn away, covering their mouths with horror. The mayor, however, refuses to even blink. He stares at the screen, face blotchy with shock and disgust. His fists are clenched and his nostrils widen as if he can smell sulphur.
Day two: the twins are still in bed, although the sun is streaming in through the windows. Dan is twitching and moaning. He seems to be in some discomfort. His twin, Wayne, sitting up in the next bed, is watching him.
In the night, Wayne pulls out his cannula and gets out of his bed. He crosses over and removes Dan’s drip too, then gently removes Dan’s sheets, pulls him up and carries him out of the room.
Day three: the little doctor in the white coat who goes by the name of Pansy speaks into the video camera. ‘… we have had to sedate and restrain the control as he caused a little trouble in the night, but I am still happy with the progression of Twin One.’
Day four: both twins lie side by side. They both look thin and frail. Dan looks terrible, cheeks sunken and sores around his mouth. His breath is intermittent and ragged. Wayne, although he seems to be sleeping, has tears sliding from under his closed eyelids. A nurse checks his pulse, dabs at his cheeks with a cloth.
Day five: Pansy is almost dancing. ‘I think it might even happen today! Sod you, Binding. You said it couldn’t be done, but look! You checked the patients yourself, healthy and strong, right? But only five days and seven hours and Twin One is going into heart failure.’ He holds up a hypodermic. ‘And it’s all in this little baby! My “P Formula”. “Natural” death as fast as you like! Just wait till that Frenchie Rennes gets a sniff of this. We’ll be cleaning up society’s slag heap for years to come!’
The footage freezes on Pansy’s wink, his hand with the hypodermic high in the air in jubilation. Behind him the two tortured young men lie grey and still. A nurse is looking at her watch. The world stops.
‘Where did you get this?’ Rennes is screeching now, pointing at the screen, frantically twisting in his gluey wheelchair. ‘This is all classified information! No video was made … c’est … pour de faux … it’s a fake!’
‘Shut up, Henri, shut up, Henri, shut up, Henri,’ repeats Stella over and over. Her hair comes away in clumps, stuck to the back of the chair. She looks demented.
Alex and Terry are right there with the mike and the camera, but the clowns don’t intervene. They move back, watching.
‘What did you mean, “it’s classified”?’ Alex is trying not to shout too. She clutches the mike, stepping up to the writhing Frenchman. Henri’s face is a blur of white and black to her but she can just make out his open mouth. Now, maybe now, Alex realises why she has been brought along for the ride. What did Jules say? ‘You can ask your ques
tions later.’ Yes.
She slows her breathing. Alex was one of the youngest journalists to be embedded with the troops in Iraq. Adrenalin doesn’t make her lose focus. The opposite, in fact. She channels her inner inquisitor. ‘Come on, Mr Rennes,’ she cajoles. ‘TOSA. Did you get in over your head with this lot? You can’t possibly have realised that when they talked about “processing” the elderly, the vulnerable, that they meant killing them in cold blood and then disposing of their bodies?’
‘Don’t say a word!’ yells John Thorpe-Sinclair at Rennes.
‘We are not talking to you, sir.’ Alex is polite, her fury cold and sharp as the claw of a snow leopard. ‘Henri. Tell us, tell all of us, about what they made you sign up for. The Clearance, Disinfection and Disposal file. Was it yours or theirs?’
Henri’s nose is running. But so too is his mouth. Into Alex’s mike, down the camera, in English, in French, Henri Rennes talks. ‘No, no, non. Ce n’était pas moi … it was them, always them …’ He is unstoppable. In mere minutes, he has implicated at least four government ministers and several medical institutions. Alex and Terry just point their devices and film and record and breathe … in and out. In and out. What Henri is saying is so ugly and so clever that the questions are unnecessary.
Eventually, he pauses and John Thorpe-Sinclair puts his head back and yells ‘Police! Police!’ over and over again. Stella Binding looks over at him and joins in. ‘Police! Security!’
The Good Doctor Takes His
Own Medicine
‘Be quiet!’ The Mouth demands, and Thorpe-Sinclair and Stella Binding stutter into silence. ‘So you can kill them, but how do you dispose of them?’ asks The Mouth. ‘Bring on the Resomator!’